


The Last Time

by spiritualmachines



Category: Hanson (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bruises, M/M, Male Slash, Masochism, One Shot, POV First Person, Punishment, Rough Sex, Scratching, Sexual Content, Short, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2019-05-24 14:26:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14956361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiritualmachines/pseuds/spiritualmachines
Summary: Excerpt:Maybe we were both masochists in this fucked-up game.Prompt: StormPhoto:Click





	The Last Time

**Author's Note:**

> *This story is from Taylor's POV.

The series of faded and fresh bruises on his bare hips made me sick to my stomach. I tried to cover them with my hands, wanting to hide them from view. There were too many, though. No matter where I placed my hands, the evidence was staring me right in the face.

It should have made me stop what I was doing—seeing my past transgressions so clearly—but it only made me dig my fingers in deeper, gripping him even more tightly, leaving even more marks. Ones I wouldn’t see, because this was the last time.

“Fuck, yes. Harder,” he whimpered, peering at me over his shoulder with a lust-filled smirk I wanted to wipe off his pretty face.

“Don’t look at me. Don’t you even fucking dare,” I growled, unable to handle the piercing blue of his eyes on me in any capacity. 

Time and again, I told myself that I was done with him. That I was better than this. That I deserved more than being reduced to just another notch in his well-worn bedpost.

But was I truly any better than he was? Another glance down at the red, angry welts on his once unblemished back gave me my answer. No, I wasn’t better, and I was getting exactly what I deserved. 

And I clearly wasn’t done with him, either. Try as I might to convince myself otherwise, I always caved and let him in, much like I’d done earlier that night, when he had shown up on the doorstep in the middle of a rainstorm. 

I pushed his head down into the pillow, hiding his face from view as his damp hair cooled my fingers. He knew that I couldn’t stand the way he looked at me, and yet he did it anyway. Sometimes, I couldn’t help but think he _liked_ pissing me off; that he got off on it. He certainly didn’t seem to mind the punishment. 

Once upon a time, I had loved his eyes on me when we were in bed together. I loved how sexy and wanted he had made me feel when he devoured me with his hungry gaze. I couldn’t get enough of how he tasted and the way he arched toward me every time I slid inside of him. 

But those days were gone. I no longer felt sexy or wanted… truth be told, I no longer felt anything remotely positive. 

The first time he strayed, I had given him the benefit of the doubt. When he told me that spending the night in another man’s bed had been a drunken mistake—that it didn’t _mean_ anything—I believed him. But I was a fool for thinking that he wouldn’t cheat again. People never really change. 

The second time, and the third time, and even the time after that, he’d had excuses at the ready, but after awhile he stopped trying to justify his actions. What did it matter, anyway? I kept taking him back like the goddamn fool I was. I’d kicked him out once in a rare moment of strength and self-preservation, but it hadn’t changed anything. He came back, offered a threadbare apology, and I stepped aside once more to let him in. 

Screaming out in frustration, I pushed him down onto the mattress even more forcefully before slamming my hips against him violently. He cried out in return; this had to be hurting him. After all, I wasn’t exactly _small_ , nor was I holding back. But he seemed to like the pain. 

Maybe we were both masochists in this fucked-up game.

Or perhaps he felt as though he deserved the pain just as I did. Coming back for more and repeatedly putting himself in this situation was his way of repenting for his sins. The scratches and stains I left behind on his skin were reminders of what he had been stupid enough to lose. 

"Yes, Taylor, harder," he urged, trying to spur me on. 

No, scratch that. He didn't feel remorse. I was suddenly sure of it. 

“You like this, don’t you?” I seethed, my fingernails sinking sharply into the grooves of his shoulder blades as I increased the pace of my thrusts.

The laughter he let out, followed by a primal moan, let me know that he did and the blood that I drew in response only seemed to make him tighten around me more. As much as I hated to admit it, that feeling of him squeezing, milking, and holding on to me was just another one of my twisted downfalls. 

I’d fallen in love with a sociopathic man whore who only ever wanted one thing from me. And I gave it to him with an involuntary moan, twitching against him as my nails scraped down his already damaged back.

Part of me wanted to pull out before either of us came, denying us the release we were both in desperate need of achieving. But the other, even more depraved part of me wanted to secure his body against mine and never let him go. 

Reaching for his erection, I gave him a few harsh tugs that matched the merciless pounding he was receiving. Touching him was yet another thing I was helpless to stop, my desire for him making it impossible to not want to feel him release against my hand.

Every time I made him come, I fooled myself into thinking it would be good enough—that _I_ would be good enough to make him stay. He always came so hard, so quickly… it had to be because he was with me. He needed me just as much as I needed him. There was no other explanation that I would allow myself to accept in those heated moments. 

“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice slightly muffled against the pillow. 

As the telltale warmth spilled into my hand, I was pushed over the edge and into my own climax. I leaned forward until my chest was against his back, pressing my nose into his hair as I came. I could already feel the shame and disgust rising up within me, but I fought it as hard as I could. I wanted to hold on to the pleasure instead of allowing the storm within to destroy me from the inside out. 

Once I was spent, he rolled away from me just like he always did, creating the distance between us I both craved and feared. He was only a few feet away, but he may as well have been on a different planet for how pathetically lonely I felt. After cleaning himself up, he pulled on his clothes without looking at me. 

“This is the last time,” I declared in a gravelly whisper, gathering the soiled sheets around my naked body. I was suddenly ashamed of my nudity, of how exposed and vulnerable I always was to him. “The last time, understand? Don’t come back here. I don’t want to see you again.”

In that moment, I meant it. I always meant it at the time. The hard part was holding firm days, weeks, months after the fact, when he made his inevitable return.

As if to taunt me, he spun around and locked eyes with me, a strange sort of half-smile on his lips. It was like a threat, a challenge, and a display of gratitude all wrapped up in one. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t have to utter any words in order to get his point across. He would be back, and I would open my door to him.

There would never truly be a last time—not with him.


End file.
